A Sister's Sacrifice
by Cattarang
Summary: Ceilya Stark had all but accepted her duty as the eldest Stark daughter to marry through an arranged marriage. But when her family is threatened in the great Game of Thrones, she'll be forced to cast aside her perceived destiny and carve her own bloody path to preserve the Stark's rightful place as rulers of The North, accepting the help of an unlikely ally along the way. OC x ?
1. Chapter One - Royal Visit

"Ceilya, look." Bashfully presenting her cross stitching to her older sister, Sansa held her breath; hers was neither as complicated nor as crisp as Ceilya's, but it was her best work by far. The older girl who sat beside her smiled kindly at her sister, though, and set her own stitching down. "What do you think?"

"Oh, Sansa!" Septa Mordane let out a complimentary gasp before Ceilya could respond, leaning down between the two girls. "My, how lovely! Your needlework is coming along wonderfully!" Giving her tutor a polite but curt smile, Sansa shifted her gaze back to her sister. Ceilya nodded, holding back an amused smile as the elderly Septa puttered along to oversee their youngest sister's clumsy attempts.

"She's right," Ceilya said, picking Sansa's work up to inspect it. "You'll be better than me before I know what to do about it!" This caused Sansa to roll her eyes slightly, though she openly enjoyed her sister's praise. Somehow, receiving compliments from her meant more than from Septa Mordane.

"Don't worry," Arya grumbled from behind Sansa, yanking her needle through the cloth too roughly, tearing it a bit. "I'll always be the worst. Not like I want to be good at this anyway…"

"You'll have other talents," Ceilya pointed out.

"Like getting dirty and swearing," Sansa snarked, and just as Arya scowled and stuck her tongue out at the middle sister, Septa Mordane turned, and caught her.

"Arya!" she scolded, and Ceilya felt a little bad for her youngest sister. She remembered clearly being scolded as a young girl as well, for similar offenses. But being quite a bit older than Arya, five years older, she'd grown out of childish impulsivity. For the most part.

"What are you sewing?" Sansa asked, looking from the needle work in her own lap to Ceilya's. Smoothing the cotton out, she let Sansa lean over to see; black and white thread, woven intricately into the fabric in the shape of a sun.

"House Karstark's sigil," she supplied, smiling slightly.

"Ew." Arya's quick, sharp assessment earned her another chastisement from their teacher, and this time Ceilya openly laughed. Arya was only eleven; of course a betrothal sounded absurd to her. But to Sansa, who had only just turned 13, the notion of marriage seemed desirable and romantic, even an arranged marriage.

"It's not gross!" Sansa defended her older sister, "It's wonderful! The Karstarks are our most loyal bannermen!"

"But she doesn't even know Harrion Karstark!" Arya shot back, glaring angrily between them. "He's twice her age and a stranger!"

"Young lady, that is enough!" Shushed a third and final time by the Septa, Arya was seized, not unkindly, by the upper arm. "Why don't we just have a chat with your mother about your unruliness?" As she was led away, scowling, Ceilya sighed. Arya did have a point, she had to admit. She'd only briefly spoken to her betrothed, and that felt like ages ago. But Ceilya wasn't necessarily adverse to the idea of marriage. Her mother had been married at close to Ceilya's age, and she certainly was eligible. She hadn't been too keen on the idea when her father had approached her with the betrothal, though. Catelyn must have sensed her daughter's weariness, and for now, the engagement was just that. An engagement. Marriage was far and away for Ceilya, but it would happen eventually, she knew.

As she mulled all this over in her head silently, Sansa watched her, wary of any reaction from her older sister. When she finally realized Sansa was watching her, Ceilya looked up and smiled reassuringly.

"Oh, Arya's just young," she said, setting her sewing aside. "It's an honor to wed Lord Harrion."

"I wish I could be the one getting married," Sansa sighed, tugging the thread through the fabric gently. "It's so romantic."

"You could marry Lord Harrion's younger brother, Torrhen," Ceilya suggested. It was a real possibility for the sisters, to wed brothers of the same House. At this, Sansa turned a girlish shade of pink, and smiled down at her hands. It was a little disconcerting how much her younger sister looked forward to being wed to a man she didn't even know, but Ceilya brushed that thought aside for now. As daughters of the House Stark, it was their duty, after all.

Both girls looked up as there was a commotion in the courtyard just outside. Leaning back in her seat to get a better view out of the open window, Ceilya could just make out Arya, ducking away from Bran as the younger took a swing at her. Arya was laughing, though Ceilya knew Arya laughed at many things she wasn't supposed to laugh at.

"Now what's she doing?" Sansa asked, pouting slightly.

"Why are you always so upset by what Arya does?" Ceilya asked amusedly, shaking her head.

"She never behaves!" the younger whined, "and she's always getting herself in trouble! That's not how a lady should behave!" Her cheeks were rosy with indignation as she said this, and the elder sister just laughed.

"And since when are you her mother?" Ceilya asked, to Sansa's chagrin. The younger didn't reply, feeling hurt by her older sister's gentle reprimand, but instead cast her eyes back down to her sewing. Doing the same, Ceilya pulled the last few stitches through the cloth, finishing her design, just as another clamor kicked up outside. But this time, it was not child's play. Abandoning their projects, the two girls made their way outside, in time to see Jon sorting the last of the dulled practice arrows, and Rob exit the courtyard with Bran in tow.

"What's the matter now?" Ceilya asked, craning her neck up to where her father had stood only moments ago. Now it was only her mother overseeing the courtyard, with a sullen look on her face. "Jon, what's happened?"

"Ser Rodrik just informed Father of a deserter from the Night's Watch," he replied, raising an eyebrow as he glanced at his half-sisters. Sansa remained a half-step behind Ceilya, as she wrung her hands slightly. Ceilya's countenance remained unchanged, though it was troubling news; everyone in Winterfell, from the Starks down to the lowest born servant knew what that meant: an execution. Shoving the last of the arrows into their stationary quiver, Jon sighed. "He's instructed Bran to come with us to witness the sentencing."

"And Mother allowed this?" she asked, her eyebrows knitting together briefly, as she cast a sideways glance back up to their Mother, whose face was now turned away.

"He's not a little boy, he'll need to see more than a few executions in his time," Jon said, to which his sister merely scoffed.

"Not a little boy?" she said, all but laughing, "Jon, you're still a boy yourself." Jon rolled his eyes at this and turned to leave, dismissing his sister's light-hearted ridicule. She was younger than him, what place of hers was it to call him a boy? Even if she was a Stark.

"How rude," Sansa muttered under her breath, but Ceilya wasn't bothered by Jon's curt ways. He'd always been a bit on the sullen side, even as a little boy. He was never as visibly happy as Rob or Theon, but also never rowdy, or loud, or mean. She sighed, and as she turned to go, Sansa called after her. "Where are you going?"

"The Godswood," Ceilya replied over her shoulder without pausing. If there was to be an execution, then someone would have to pray for the poor man, even if he was a deserter. And Ceilya knew it wouldn't likely be her Father or brothers.

* * *

The ripples in the water of the pond that reflected Winterfell's old Weirwood tree liked to play tricks on Ceilya as she stared into the water's depths. They painted her reflection's face with wrinkles from time she'd not yet lived, and she couldn't help but study such an odd picture of herself. She wondered if she'd really look like that as an old woman, or if she'd look more like her Mother, or more like her Father's sister, Lyanna. She'd been told Lyanna hadn't made it to old age, she'd been kidnapped and murdered by the Targaryens, but that she was extremely beautiful. Once the water settled down and the ripples disappeared, Ceilya peered at her unmarred reflection and wondered; was she beautiful?

Sansa was beautiful. Everyone said she was the spitting image of their Mother when she was young. Arya was…well, Arya was pretty, but she wasn't old enough yet to be considered anything more than a pretty child. She definitely looked more like their Father, though, and by extension, must've looked a lot like Lyanna. but what of the eldest Stark daughter? Where was she on this sliding scale of beauty?

Ceilya could have followed this vain train of thought for eons, it seemed, out here in the silence of the Godswood. Her prayers had slowly died away to allow her own impudent thoughts to take over, and while she knew it was not very pious of her, she couldn't very well help herself. What was a girl of her age to do, when confronted with thoughts like these? But it was a good thing a distraction came swiftly; pondering one's own beauty in the Godswood for too long would surely not gain her any favor with the Gods.

Boots crunched through underbrush, and Ceilya heard it a ways off, but didn't look up until the footsteps approached the pond. She saw his reflection before she saw him, and when her gaze finally found her Father, she offered him a weary smile, which he returned.

"Welcome back," she said, sliding to one side of the boulder she sat on, patting the empty space beside her. Eddard Stark chuckled at her invitation, but took it, and in the process of sitting beside her, revealed the present he carried under his cloak for his eldest daughter. The pup he held by the scruff of it's neck whined as it was jostled, and Ceilya found herself immediately reaching for the poor little creature. "Whats this?" she asked, the corners of her mouth pulling up in a smile as she cradled the pup in her arms.

"You can thank Jon and Bran for him," Ned said. "It's a Direwolf pup. Seven pups and a dead mother, found on our way back home."

"But Septa Mordane said Direwolves only live North of the wall," Ceilya asked, smiling brighter as the pup attempted to burrow into the skirts of her dress for warmth. "How do you suppose a mother and her seven pups crossed the wall?"

"Only the Gods really know," he sighed. "But I'll tell you what I told Bran and the others; if you keep him, he's your responsibility."

"Of course," she said, stroking the pup's ashey-red colored fur. "If he has no mother, then I'll be his mother now." Ceilya's comment was innocent enough, but at the mention of being made a mother, Ned shifted slightly. It wasn't often he thought about his daughter's engagement; in fact, the thought hadn't truly crossed his mind since the arrangement had been brokered with Lord Karstark. The decision had been a hasty one, he did admit, but when it came right down to it, Ceilya was of marriageable age. Just because she was a Stark did not make her a man. And a woman must be married. He cleared his throat slightly.

"Ceilya, dearest," he started, trying not to let the words leave his mouth before he'd thought them over, "tell me honestly. Your betrothal…you understand my decision, don't you?" Ceilya paused, still watching her pup wriggle in her lap, before turning her dark eyes up, and giving her Father a quizzical look? Of all the times to ask such a question, now seems like a good time to him? Not when he first made the engagement?

"Well, I'm sure I do," she said, laughing a bit. "Lord Harrion is the obvious choice, Mother says."

"But do you know why I've set you to be married?"

"Obviously, it's to get rid of your most troublesome daughter," she said, hiding a small grin behind her sarcasm. Ned laughed at this, patting his heavy hand on her shoulder and drawing her close for the sort of awkward hug fathers and daughters routinely share.

"And what trouble do you cause?" he asked. "Been stabbing the Septa with those sewing needles of yours?"

"Arya wishes," Ceilya joked, and again her Father erupted in laughter; he was a bit stiff and awkward at times, she thought, but she was grateful for his sense of humor. Not all daughters could joke with their fathers like this, and she was very grateful for that. Patting his arm reassuringly, she rose to her feet, hoisting her pup up with her. "I'm not upset about the betrothal, Father," she said. "What else was I going to do with myself? Take up arms and join the King's Guard?"

"Over my dead body," Ned muttered, getting to his feet as well. The two of them made their way back to the castle, Ceilya's pup protesting being held the entire way. "Those things really are more trouble than they're worth," he grumbled, more to himself than to his daughter.

"One day you may come to regret saying that," Ceilya pointed out. "They won't be pups forever. And won't the other Lords be jealous of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, the man with seven Direwolves under his command?"

"They'll be under you and your siblings command, I want nothing to do with the beasts," he replied. Reaching over, he scratched behind the pup's ear, directly contradicting his own words. "Bloody little things. Can't see the appeal."

* * *

"How many pies?" Ceilya looked down at the neatly written list on the table incredulously as she pinned her sleeves back, preparing to dunk her arms elbow deep in flour and dough. "Who are all these pies for, the Queen? I'm sure we won't need 25!"

"The King'll eat five himself, easy," one of the kitchen servants quipped, causing several others to twitter with laughter. "I hear he's not small."

"Now, that's not very kind," Ceilya chided, but smiled as she did so, kneading the dough that was set in front of her. It wasn't often that the kitchen was this busy, with servants and staff running around tirelessly to prepare for the welcoming feast Lady Stark had ordered for the Royal Procession. Ever since the raven carrying word of their journey North on the King's Road had arrived in Winterfell, if felt to Ceilya that she'd had no rest. Even though it was hardly required of a noble born Stark child to aid in the preparations, she couldn't have just sat around the castle, watching everyone else work so tirelessly while she was idle. Not that her mother knew she was here, but the kitchen staff was very grateful for the extra pair of hands.

"And who says we have to be kind?" one servant asked, and another agreed.

"I bet you a silver dragon we'll hear word of some menial complain the King and Queen have that'll be OUR fault!" another piped up over the din of pots boiling over and stokers being manhandled.

"I'm sure they'll be nothing but gracious," Ceilya assured, kneading the dough back and forth, working any air bubbles out. "They're royalty, after all."

"Not every house is as patient as the Starks." One of the older kitchen maids, a woman named Fryda said, coming to stand beside the eldest Stark daughter and knead her own pile of dough. "And not every noble as kind."

"But King Robert is a Baratheon," she replied, "he's not some mad Targaryen. He's not even a Lannister. He's Father's friend, so he must be more sensible than that." This rose a round of laughter from those in ear shot, and Ceilya's cheeks immediately went pink as she wondered what was so funny about what she'd said. Fryda didn't laugh, seeming to take pity on the naïve little Stark girl, though.

"Just because the King is your Father's friend, doesn't make him sensible," she pointed out, before focusing back on her work. Ceilya nodded, deciding to keep her mouth shut, for fear of saying something else to embarrass herself. And the talk in the kitchen shifted slowly, first to the musings of how many of the King's Guard the King was bringing, then to where all of these people would be housed, until finally talk turned to the Queen, and her Lannister brothers and children.

"The Queen is apparently one of the most beautiful women in the seven kingdoms," one said, wiping soot from the oven fire from her cheeks. "King Robert is lucky he's a King and can have any woman he wanted, or else he never would have had her!"

"I hear the Queen's brother is quite a good looking man, too," another woman said, and more giggles fallowed. Ceilya's ears perked up slightly as she stretched a circular piece of rolled-out dough over a filled pie pan.

"Yes, with that Lannister-gold hair and jawline!" Even though she was to be married, Ceilya did still enjoy idle gossip like this; she was a teenage girl, after all. Smiling again, she turned to look over her shoulder at the women talking.

"Which brother are you talking about?" she asked, "The imp?" Again, more laughter at Ceilya's expense erupted, and again her face went red.

"The imp?" someone asked, nudging her side slightly. "Yes, of course we're talking about the imp! He's soo handsome!"

"Just my type!" another woman said jokingly. Ceilya frowned, more at her own stupidity than their teasing, and turned back to her work. She liked to talk to other girls her own age, but she never seemed to say the right thing.

"Oi, shut up!" Fryda scowled at the women standing idle, and immediately they stopped their laughing. "Get back to work! Do you think three roasts are going to turn themselves?" There were a few hushed apologies as work resumed in the kitchen, but Ceilya didn't look back up again.

'I should have known they were talking about the Queen's twin,' she thought, mentally chiding herself on her stupid remark. 'Of course they weren't talking about her youngest brother. That's ridiculous!' Taking her frustrations about her lack of social finesse out on a new lump on unkneaded dough, Fryda turned to her, and cleared her throat.

"I hear the prince is around your age, child," she said, trying to change the subject. "You don't think the King and your Father will conspire to marry you into the crown, do you?"

"Me?" Ceilya asked, looking sideways at the woman. "No, not me. I'm already betrothed. My Father wouldn't break a betrothal with his most loyal bannermen." She paused, her hands hesitating as she went to grab for more flour. "…But I suppose, maybe for Sansa." She went quiet, contemplating this possibility. Sansa did express a desire to be married, and wouldn't that just fulfill her 13 year old fantasies? To be married to a prince, and someday be his Queen? That almost seemed too perfect.

"So there would be a Stark on the throne someday," Fryda went on, snapping Ceilya out of her own thoughts.

"Er, I suppose, in a sense," Ceilya replied. "But, surely not me. I would make a dreadful Queen. I never seem to say the right thing, anyway." She watched her own hands as they worked, and beside her the older woman dusted her hands on her apron.

"Saying the right thing is not nearly as important as doing the right thing," Fryda said wisely, patting Ceilya's shoulder. "You're still young. A quick tongue only comes from age. Now, get on with you. What'll your mother day if you get any more flour on you?" She wiped a smudge of the powdery substance from Ceilya's cheek as she smiled, and she nodded, graciously accepting her dismissal. Not like Ceilya had anything more to say to the other servants, anyway.

* * *

Ceilya's steps were quick as she made her way across the bustling courtyard. Rowan had grown quicker than she'd expected him to, and as she wove her way through the crowd gathering, he stayed close on her feet, his nose held low to the ground. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the water trough by the stables, she looked around quickly to make sure no one was looking, and checked to make sure her hair was still in place. Twisted on the sides, but kept down at her shoulders; it was how most Northern women kept their hair. When they weren't working, of course.

"Rowan," she called sternly, as several of the horses whinnied in annoyance; the pup gave up trying to run amuck under their hooves, and followed his master as they continued on their way.

Her Mother had gone off to find Bran, and bid her keep track of her sisters, but that was a task that was proving difficult. Sansa was the easy one, Ceilya knew exactly where she was, with Jayne, fretting about her dress or her hair or something along those lines. It was Arya Ceilya was anxiously looking for, and she quickly realized tracking down her younger sister was not going to go smoothly.

"Theon!" Calling out to her father's ward, whom had always been more like a troublesome older brother to her, Ceilya yanked up her skirts so they wouldn't drag in the mud, and hustled over to where he was directing a few stable boys.

"Going to greet the Queen like that?" Theon asked, nodding to her awkward grasp on her dress.

"Ha, ha," she laughed humorlessly, letting the fabric drop back in place and narrowing her eyes at him. "Have you seen Arya? She's not where I told her to be."

"When is that one ever where anyone wants her to be?" Theon asked, hiking up his belt slightly. "But I haven't seen her."

"Well, where would you think she'd be at a time like this? Mother had her put in a dress this morning, it's not like she'd be scaling the walls or…" Just as her sentence cut off, Ceilya's eye caught a light blue dress, standing atop a very precariously parked cart. Without properly parting with Theon, she marched her way over, meaning to snatch that girl off her perch and back onto the ground where she belonged, when a wave of murmurs began to sweep through the assembled staff and crowd in the courtyard.

"He's here."

"They're here!"

"Out of the way!" Craning her neck to see over the heads of those around her, Ceilya could just make out the beginning of the Royal Procession as it rode through the open gates. Panicking, Ceilya decided that Arya could find her own way down, and turned, shoving her way back through to get to where her family was assembled.

"Where were you?" Sansa whispered as Ceilya slunk to her place in line, between the middle sister and Rob.

"I had to-" she began to say, only to be cut off as their Mother looked up and down the line, noticing a conspicuously absent Arya.

"Where's Arya?" she asked, looking to Ceilya. "Ceilya, where's your sister?"

"Uh…" she trialed off, her cheeks glowing a slight pink as her mother looked at her expectantly. She was relieved when her gaze moved to the approaching procession, and let out a sigh. She felt rather bad, but was it really her fault their youngest sister was so difficult?

She breathed a sigh of relief, though, as the youngest Stark daughter came running up just before the King's Guard rose forward. She was caught by their Father as she tried to go past him, and the helmet she was wearing was taken from her head.

"Hey, hey," she heard him whisper, turning the adult-sized helmet over in his hands, "what are you doing with that on? …Go on." Motioning to dismiss her, Arya made her way to her place in line, shoving Bran to the side as she did so.

"Move!" she whispered, to which Ceilya gave her a disapproving stare. Robb gave them all one final 'Quiet!' before they settled down. Ceilya glanced sideways at her eldest brother; of course he could command respect from their siblings. She idly wished her youngest brothers and sister would invest as much authority in her as they did Robb. At times, it felt like only Sansa listened to her. Smoothing out her dress quickly and folding her hands neatly in front of her as the procession began to halt in front of the assembled house, she saw the Prince ride up first, accompanied by a man in a great dog-shaped helm, not one of the King's Guard as was obvious by his non-gilded armor, but intimidating none the less. Ceilya could practically feel the excitement radiating from her sister beside her, and a quick glance to her side confirmed the shy little smile Sansa wore. Robb was similarly interested in Sansa's expression, following her gaze to the haughty little blonde who sat atop his horse as if he owned the world. From him, Ceilya could feel over-powering resentment.

In seemingly one fluid motion, the members of the house and their vassals and servants all bent to one knee as the King himself rode up, assisted off his horse by a small team of royal servants. Ceilya kept her bow steady, her gaze tentatively on the ground in front of her, but beside her, Sansa kept sneaking glances at the Prince. Upon a quick hand gesture from King Robert as he came to stand in front of their father, the children, their mother and all those assembled behind them, including Jon, rose to their feet, and Ceilya's gaze could roam the royal procession freely.

"You got fat," The King said brusquely to her father, and after a tense bit of silence, the two men shared a laugh between them, and the anxiety dissipated from the air as everyone seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. "Cat!" he boomed, embracing Lady Stark and patting the youngest Stark, Rickon, on the head.

The ladies in waiting standing beside the great gilded carriage that had ridden up and come to a stop in the courtyard all bowed their heads in unison as the Queen stepped from the vessel, cloaked in Lannister gold, red and furs. It was likely far colder here in the North than anywhere Queen Cersei had ever been before, even Casterly Rock. Behind her trailed two small children, the Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen, Ceilya presumed. Wide-eyed and shivering, they looked like curious little pigeons as they took in the completely foreign surroundings of Winterfell, in stark contrast to the annoyed glances their mother was giving to the assembled people of the North.

"Nine years. Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?" The King asked, clasping Ned about the shoulders in a show of brotherly familiarity.

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."

"Where's the imp?" Ceilya's head snapped around as Arya spoke up, throwing her a shocked look as Sansa rudely shushed her. The eldest sister glanced back at the King, but he was too busy regarding Robb to have heard the youngest sister's remark.

"Who have we here? You must be Robb," he stated, and her brother nodded. Clasping his shoulder briefly, the King turned his gaze to the three sisters, standing side by side, and let out a pleased little chuckle. "My, my, but you've some pretty daughters, Ned! Ceilya, if I remember correctly?" Ceilya smiled graciously, dipping her head to him. "And Sansa; you look so much like your mother, don't you?" His eyes fell on Arya then. "And your name is?"

"Arya," she replied, her sullen look replaced by what Ceilya might have thought was bashfulness, if it were gracing anyone else's face. But their sister Arya? No, bashfulness was not something Arya felt! Or so she thought. Moving on to Bran, King Robert smiled once more. "Ooh, show us your muscles." Her brother obliged happily, causing the King to laugh. "You'll be a soldier!" he praised, before he returned to stand by their father's side.

Stepping from his horse, one of the King's Guard shook his head as he removed his helm, and Ceilya realized by the way the Prince and Princess by the carriage addressed him, that it must have been who the servants had been talking about, the Queen's twin brother. Her sisters beside her were bickering once again, but Ceilya for once paid them no mind; the servants had been right, Jaime Lannister was quite handsome. Ceilya realized she'd been staring, rather obviously, when Robb elbowed her gently; the Queen was now approaching.

"My Queen," Ned greeted her, bowing and taking her hand to kiss it. The greeting was echoed by Lady Stark, and the Queen looked as if she were about to speak, when King Robert interjected, beckoning Ned to move out of line and follow him.

"Take me to your crypt. I want to pay my respects," he commanded.

"We've been riding for a month, my love," the Queen spoke up, her voice softer than Ceilya would imagine for someone so fair yet fierce-faced. The King paid her no mind, though, once again commanding Ned to follow, and follow he did. Another long pause descended upon those assembled, and again, at the most inopportune time, Arya spoke up once more.

"Where's the imp?" she questioned again, this time a bit louder, and to Ceilya's horror, Queen Cersei looked over to the youngest Stark girl then.

"Arya!" Ceilya gasped, worried she'd offended the Queen by calling her brother such a crude name, but Cersei only turned, stalking back over to her brother, angrily addressing him.

"Where is our brother?" she asked, her tone terse. "Go and find the little beast."

"Ceilya?" Only tearing her eyes away from the Royal family at her mother's beckoning, she looked over. "Why don't you check on the preparations for the feast? Sansa can make sure her siblings are ready."

"Why do I have to?" Sansa asked quietly, shooting their mother a pleading look. "I don't want to go inside-"

"I'll be showing the procession to their accommodations," Lady Stark interrupted, shooing the two girls. "Now do as you're told. Bran, Arya, listen to your sister now."

* * *

Ceilya watched in dismay as the King ordered yet another flask of mead. He was already far past drunk at that point, and had taken up swinging his arms wildly around as he recounted, again, the tale of how won King's Landing. She sighed; it was greatly embellished, and glancing down the table at her brother, seated beside Theon and several other boys. He was wearing a similar expression.

Ceilya was seated with Sansa, and several other girls from the manor their own age. Arya was a bit further down the table from them, battling with Bran over ownership of a spoon. Setting an elbow ungraciously on the surface of the table, Ceilya leaned her cheek into her hand; for a Royal feast, this wasn't anything like she anticipated. Even watching Sansa be summoned to the head of the table to address the Queen didn't lift her spirits much. She couldn't even put her finger on what it was, exactly, perhaps it was merely the fact that despite appearances, the Royal family wasn't at all what she'd expected. Perhaps it had been naïve to expect a fairy tale, but at least, something besides a drunkard for a king? It was just a bit disappointing.

Standing, Ceilya was only stopped briefly by Robb as she passed him on her way out.

"Where are you headed to?" he asked her, quirking an eyebrow up at her. "Had enough of the 'entertainment'?" He was of course referring to the King, and Ceilya rolled her eyes.

"I'm going to go find Jon," she said, over the music, wiggling her wrist from his grasp. "It's too loud in here, anyway."

"Don't be gone long," he warned as she retreated from the hall. "Mother'll notice and scold you." She paid him no mind, and knew her absence wouldn't be missed all that much. Stepping from the hall and closing the great door behind her, she breathed easier as soon as she was out of the deafening roars of drunken laughter and music, and let the crisp night air clean the musky scent of alcohol from her nose.

"Oi, little girl!" Ceilya's head came down from the clouds right quick as a man called out to her as he rounded a corner. In the dark as they were, she froze, her gut clenching nervously, despite the fact that she was still within castle walls, and the guards posted at each entrance wouldn't have let a deviant into Winterfell while the Royal family was inside. But the man drew nearer, and as he stepped into the light of a torch, her nerves dissipated. "I hear those troublesome Starks live within these walls; they've demanded I come all the way out from The Wall to see them and the King, so where are they?"

"You've nearly given me a heart attack, Uncle!" Ceilya laughed, taking a few quick steps to close the distance between them, and reach out to receive the hug he offered her. "I thought you were some thug!"

"Come to kidnap the Princess of Winterfell? No, she'd bite my ear off if I tried to carry her away!"

"No I wouldn't!" she laughed, grinning up at her Uncle Benjen, "just a finger, maybe."

"That's my girl! Don't let 'em take you without a fight!" He ruffled her hair slightly, and while that would have annoyed her to no end coming from someone else, especially considering how meticulously she'd styled it, from Benjen, she could forgive it. "Why're you out in the dark, anyway? I haven't missed the feast, have I? Or have they kicked you out? Drunken misconduct, hmm?"

"Hmph. Perhaps the King, but not me." Glancing over her shoulder, back towards the main hall, Benjen just chuckled, nodding slightly.

"Still at it, then, ol' King Robert? Rest assured, 'Little Seal', he's always been that way." Giving her a good-natured wink, he patted her on the shoulder, before making his way past her and towards the hall. "I'd better get in there before all the fun starts and a chair gets broken over someone's head." Pausing, he looked back at her, his dark eyes glinting in the lantern light. "Jon's in the courtyard, if you're still not feeling up to returning to the feast?" Ceilya's face lit up then, and Benjen knew he'd hit the nail on the head. Even as small children, he'd known Ned's eldest daughter to cling to her bastard brother, preferring his company to that of others. Nodding once in farewell to her Uncle, she gathered her skirts and quickly made her way through castle grounds to the courtyard.

Ceilya was just about to round the corner then, but, it wasn't Jon's voice she heard speak from the other side. Halting, she remained concealed in the relative darkness around her corner, peeking out only slightly, to catch a glimpse of Jon standing beside a training dummy, sword in hand, and a man speaking to him from the other side of the courtyard, similarly shrouded in shadows.

"Your Uncle's in the Night's Watch?" the man asked, his silhouette seeming….a bit on the short side.

"What're you doing back there?" Jon asked, and it was only then that the man started to step from the shadows, and his lack of height not only became noticeable, but unignorably; it hit Ceilya like a ton of bricks, this was the 'imp' of a brother to the Queen. This was Tyrion Lannister.

"Preparing for a night with your family," he replied, lifting a flask to his lips to drink from it. "…I've always wanted to see The Wall."

"You're Tyrion Lannister," Jon guessed, though how could it not be? There weren't any other dwarves in the Royal Procession. "The Queen's brother."

"My greatest accomplishment. And you." Tyrion's eyes scanned Jon up and down, an unreadable expression on his face. Or rather, unreadable from Ceilya's vantage point. "You're Ned Stark's bastard, aren't you." Both Jon and Ceilya visibly bristled at that, though only Jon's reaction was visible to Tyrion. Jon turned away then, obviously insulted, though Tyrion was quick to reply to his unspoken emotion. "Did I offend you? Sorry. You are the bastard, though?"

"…Lord Eddard Stark is my father," Jon replied.

"And Lady Stark is not your mother. Making you….the bastard." Ceilya couldn't see Jon's face, but from the way he fell silent, her heart clenched. Who was this Lannister imp, who did he think he was!? Her muscles tensed, wanting to desperately leap out and defend her brother, consequences of speaking to a guest rudely be damned, but Tyrion spoke again before she could move an inch. "Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."

"The hell would you know about being a bastard?" Her gut twisted in sympathy for Jon and irritation at Tyrion's rude, blunt, unsolicited advice, Ceilya stepped out of her shadow right as Jon spoke up, and Tyrion looked back at him.

"All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes." The words Ceilya had planned to say died in her throat as Lord Tyrion made his final reply, tipping his flask back to drink, but nearly choking as he saw Ceilya standing there, staring between the two men with a somewhat irritated look on her face. "…Ah, a Stark girl, I presume?" he managed to get out without coughing.

"Ceilya," she supplied lamely, her fists still balled up in the bulk of her dress skirts.

"Well then, my apologies for my lateness, Lady Ceilya. You haven't come to fetch me, have you?" He glanced over his shoulder, the way he came from. "I thought I did a rather good job of sneaking in unnoticed by the guards."

"Er…no. I came to…speak to my brother." She said the last bit with a bit more conviction in her voice, emphasizing the word 'brother'. She'd never been fond of the term half-brother, anyway. Tyrion smiled slightly, tipping his head, before passing by her, on his way into the great hall.

"Then don't let me keep you."

"Lord Tyrion," she bid him farewell, curtsying slightly, and making sure he was fully out of earshot, before turning back to Jon. Her elder brother wore a slightly annoyed expression as she walked over.

"And what do you want?" he asked, Ceilya taken back a bit by his tone of voice.

"I came to find you," she answered, puzzled by his apparent venom, and flinched slightly as he picked his sword back up, swinging it at the practice dummy. "…I couldn't take another second watching the King drink himself stupid, and…and you know I'm not good with parties."

"No, I wouldn't know," he said, smacking his target so hard it set the post wobbling. "I'm never invited."

"Jon," she laid a hand on his shoulder, and it was his turn to flinch, shying away irritably from her touch. Ceilya huffed, grabbing his shoulder more firmly, insisting he pause and look at her. "Jon Snow, will you look at me when I'm talking to you?"

"Of course, My Lady," he said sarcastically, pulling away but turning to her.

"Cut it out, will you? Honestly, what's gotten into you?"

"Isn't that how a bastard should address his betters?"

"Jon!" Smacking him by the shoulder, she'd had just about enough of this tantrum; he was older, but he was acting like a child! "You know I don't care about that! And you're more stupid than I thought you were if you think for one second that I'll be swayed by those kinds of comments! You're my brother, now stop acting like a little girl whose feelings got hurt!" She stomped her foot at that for good measure, scowling up at him. "You said it yourself, what would he know about anything? He's an imp! ….And even if YOU were an imp, it wouldn't matter because I would still love my imp brother, now please shut up with this 'bastard' business. I came out here to get away from stupidity, not to be surrounded by more!" She stood her ground, even though she was looking up at him, she held her chin high, not ready to back down just yet. Jon's eyebrows were raised, surprised by her little outburst, but he quickly began to laugh, turning away, not able to take her angry face seriously. Ceilya's look morphed from annoyance to shock, confused that he would laugh at her at a time like this! "A-and what exactly is so funny?"

"You!" Jon said, wiping his eyes, setting his sword down by the practice dummies and sitting on a bale of hay nearby. Ceilya moved to stand in front of him, arm's crossed.

"I wasn't trying to be…"

"You rarely have to try to be funny to make others laugh." Jon patted the hay beside him, and Ceilya huffed, rolling her eyes, but nonetheless sitting down. Her skirts billowed out a bit in front of her, and she had to work to punch them down to lie flatter. "See? Like that!"

"I can't help it, it's this dress!" she pouted. "It won't behave!"

"That makes two of you."

"I behave!"

"Hardly!" Jon motioned to the castle. "You're supposed to be inside, aren't you? Rubbing elbows with the Royal family?" Ceilya rolled her eyes again.

"Please, Jon, don't act like you think I LIKE going to parties!" She shook her head, shrugging her shoulders as she glanced around the darkened courtyard. "I'm dreadful at speaking to anyone. You know that."

"You could just bust out your sewing and show the Queen?" he suggested, nudging her in the side slightly. "She might ask you to be a Royal Seamstress-"

"Oh, will you be quiet?" She shoved Jon playfully at that, laughing. Anyone watching the two would not guess this was the same well-behaved and composed eldest Stark daughter; with her favorite brother, she felt almost like a different person. She'd always gotten along best with Jon, since the time they were young; there was hardly an age difference between the two, after all. And, she hated to admit it, but since Jon was not a full Stark son, he'd never bossed her around like Robb, something she was not at all fond of. He'd always seen her as more of an equal. "…I'd rather be out here, bored to tears with my favorite person than in a room bored to tears with people I hardly know."

"Isn't that going to be your wedding feast, though?" Ceilya's easy smile faltered slightly at this comment, and Jon looked as if he had not yet realized he'd said something to throw a wrench in the conversation. Her expression fell, just slightly, as she considered his words; she hadn't given it much thought, but….he had a point. Hopefully, her wedding fest would contain less drunken kings, but…besides her family, it WOULD consist of mostly strangers. After all, she'd never been in the company of the full Karstark clan, and had spoken to Lord Harrion but once. They WOULD be strangers. Suddenly, Arya's comments about being wedded to a stranger came rushing back to her.

It took Jon a full minute to realize he'd said something to cause Ceilya's sudden silence, and he looked away awkwardly.

"Er…sorry," he mumbled, but by then, Ceilya had once again chased those thoughts from her mind, and tried to regain her cheery attitude. There was no use fretting over it, after all. She couldn't change it, so why worry?

"Don't be. You sound just like Arya."

"That's good." Jon smiled. "She's very wise."

"Oh, yes, of course she is!" Chuckling, she plucked a pin from her hair that had been stabbing her in the scalp all day. "Wisest eleven year old I've ever met."

"I'm going to miss her, and you, when I'm at The Wall." He leaned his elbows down on his knees, getting a slightly faraway look in his eye, though Ceilya had not grasped the full subcontext of his words just yet.

"Oh, is Uncle Benjen taking you for a visit?" she asked, wondering about The Wall herself. She'd never seen it, of course, and likely never would, but, it was interesting to think about. They said it was 100 stories high, and miles and miles long, all made from ice. That must have been such a sight to behold…

"A visit? I suppose you could call it that," Jon said, smiling ever so slightly. "A visit for the rest of my life."

"What?" It seemed like the entire night fell silent at those words, and Ceilya turned a worried expression on her brother; what did he mean, his whole life? He didn't…he wasn't going to join, was he? "Jon, what are you talking about? You're not joining the Night's Watch! …Are you?"

"…I want to." He said this almost ruefully, as he could sense the disappointment from his sister. Her face fell at that, looking borderline horrified.

"No! Jon, you can't!"

"What else am I going to do with myself?" Those words struck Ceilya deep, as well; she'd said the very same when her father had asked her about her feelings on her engagement. But…but this was different! Jon wasn't merely getting married, he'd be actively putting his life in danger! "I'm not high born like you," he continued, standing, scuffing his boots in the dust. "I can't marry and have my own manor; who would marry a bastard? And I'm not going South, so the only way for me is the North."

"Jon, it's dangerous!" The words felt stupid in her mouth; of course he must know that, but she couldn't help it! Standing as well, she circled round him to stand in front of him. "You can't change your mind, if you do! …Father would have to behead you if you tried!"

"I won't be changing my mind."

"You don't know that!" Her mood kept plummeting, and she shook her head, errant curls springing loose from her hairdo. "And there's wildlings, and Direwolves-"

"I'll have Ghost with me," he reminded her, but it did nothing to soothe her frazzled nature.

"Jon, why would you want to join the Night's Watch? I know you talked about it when we were young but….but I used to talk about becoming a Knight! And look at me! Am I going to run off right now, steal a sword and armor, and fight in the Kings Guard in the South? No!" Jon kept trying to shrug off her worries, but she kept insisting on getting in his face, trying to talk some sense into the boy! "And, besides! Like you said! …I'd miss you." He did stop at this, and turned a somewhat softened expression to Ceilya. Jon had always been a sensitive boy, and if there was one thing he'd never stop being soft about, it was his sisters.

"I won't be dying," he said, patting her shoulder reassuringly. "You've seen me with a sword. I won't let some wildling get the best of me. And I'll visit, like Uncle Benjen does." And when this did not seem to placate his sister, he let out a sigh, pushing his shaggy black hair from his face. "…You're going to be married. So is Sansa, and Arya. You'll all be in different corners of Westeros, and where would I be, if I didn't join? Here. I'd just stay here. At least you'll be staying in the North, and I can visit. Arya may not be so lucky, and the way things are going, it looks like Sansa will be going to King's Landing with Father to marry that Prince." They both made vaguely uncomfortable faces at that.

"But….It's just….."

"I need to make something of myself." She turned her eyes upwards, watering slightly at that. "I can be useful at The Wall. Here….I'm just the bastard-"

"You're my brother!" Ceilya asserted.

"Your brother, the bastard. And I want to be more." They both fell silent at that, and Ceilya quickly wiped her eyes; she wasn't yet crying, but the tears were threatening to fall.

"You're such an idiot," she finally sighed, shaking her head. "There's nothing at The Wall that can make you more than you already are to me." Jon opened his mouth to rebut that, but before he could reply, Ceilya continued. "…But I know I'll feel much safer, with you guarding Westeros for us there." Jon's face settled into a rueful smile at that, and quickly, Ceilya reached out to him, hugging him tightly. "Please don't do anything stupid like desert or die. I won't pray for you if you do."

"I make no promises."

"Idiot."

"I love you, too."


	2. Chapter Two - The Second Attempt

In, under, weave three stitches, up and over, start again. In, under, weave five stitches, up and over, start again.

The slow, methodical movements of her hands as she wove her needle in and out of the delicate embroidery usually served to calm Ceilya down when she was feeling stressed, but it seemed nothing could soothe her now. Her spacing was sloppy, her stitches were too far apart, the thread had snapped halfway through and the knot she'd had to tie in it was glaringly visible in the design. She just couldn't keep her hands from shaking slightly, and in defeat, she set her sewing down, and rested her face in her hand. Rowan, who was sat peacefully at her feet, looked up then, his large, dark eyes much too inquisitive to just be those of a wolf.

It was little use anyway, to try and sew when her mind was so clearly elsewhere. Maester Luwin and the Septa had let Ceilya and her sisters see Bran only once the night before, and today marked the third day in a row he lay unconscious. He'd looked so pale, laying among the mountain of furs, so much like a little ghost.

She shoved that thought from her mind immediately; Bran was not dead! He was alive, he was merely…asleep. She bit her lip, holding back the fluttering feeling in her chest from coaxing her to cry once again. She didn't want to cry any more, she just wanted Bran to heal and to return to normal.

Ceilya's eyes darted up as her chamber door was swung open abruptly, and of course there was only one person who would enter without even a precursory knock; Arya. Rowan's head lifted in surprise, but he relaxed once again, seeing who it was. The girl stood in her sister's doorway, her customary scowl even deeper as of recently, eyeing Ceilya sitting in her chair with her half-hearted embroidery slipping off her lap.

"How can you sew at a time like this?" she asked rather bluntly, eyes narrowing slightly.

"How can you remain so sour at a time like this?" Ceilya was not usually so irritable with her youngest sister, she often found her antics rather cute, in a rebellious sort of way. But she was in no mood to entertain the eleven year old's brattiness today, and would have rather been left alone. The girl huffed.

"Bran was pushed off a tower, and all you can do is sew!" She scoffed heavily at this, though she stepped into Ceilya's room, poking around at her things, making faces every now and then. Despite her harsh assessment, Arya herself didn't seem to be too terribly distraught over their brother's recent injuries. Rather, she seemed content to be self-righteously upset at Ceilya's actions instead.

"He fell, Arya," Ceilya corrected, but her voice caught in her throat at the last word; she didn't want to be speaking about this. Arya fixed her with an incredulous look.

"You've seen him climb a hundred feet in the air, and you think he fell?" She picked up Ceilya's brush off her vanity desk, inspecting it; it was a rather fine brush, a set of three Ceilya had been gifted by Harrion Karstark upon announcement of their betrothal. It came from Dorne. "He's scaled the broken tower before, and slipped, too, and never fallen like he did. I think he was pushed-"

"Arya, will you stop it!" Ceilya stood suddenly, her voice raising in distress, and beside her Rowan stood as well. He did not take an aggressive stance towards Arya, instead looking to his mistress, agitated with her upset state. "I don't want to hear another word about this nonsense!"

"Don't tell me what to do, you're not Mother!" Arya shot back.

"And you're not clever, though you think you are! Bran wasn't pushed, how dare you say that!" Arya's face crumpled at that, her nose scrunching up in anger. Her fist tightened it's grip around the handle of the brush she held, and when Ceilya made a move to approach her, meaning to shoo her out of the room, the younger sister impulsively lobbed the brush at her. Ceilya ducked as the pewter and ivory hairbrush sailed right past her head, and a shocked gasp burst from her mouth as it clattered loudly against the wall, before falling to the ground. Rowan has set to barking and growling now, circling round Ceilya's legs defensively. The handle was in two pieces, and the shards of mother-of-pearl that had been imbedded in the ivory lay scattered and broken around it.

Arya's expression faltered, seeming a bit shocked at herself even, but she blanched when Ceilya turned back to fix her with the angriest look she'd ever seen of her eldest sister. Ceilya wasn't the type to fawn over trinkets and fineries (not any more than the average girl her age, and not nearly as much as Sansa) but her nerves were already so frayed, and she was already in such a bad mood, that this was the straw that had broken her back. Lunging for her sister, she seized her by the arm, and began to roughly drag her to the door.

"That's it!" she said, on the verge of sobbing from frustration. "I can't take you anymore, Arya! I try and I try to give you the benefit of the doubt, I try to understand you, I defend you, I tell Sansa to treat you gently because you're only a girl, but you do things like this-" she motioned behind her to the broken gift with a sweep of her arm, "-and I just can't take you anymore! You insist on being such a brat, and I'm tired of you!"

"Hey, I-" She tried to protest, feeling genuinely sorry for once that she'd done that, but Ceilya wasn't in the mood to hear it; she shoved her out of the room, and slammed her door, locking it so the girl couldn't barge back in. Standing outside, Arya huffed again indignantly, her face red from embarrassment, but she just turned on her heal, and left. From her side of the door, Ceilya listened to her footsteps fade, before moving back, and sitting on the edge of her bed.

"…I shouldn't have said that," she sighed, wiping the tears that threatened to spill at the edges of her eyelids. Rowan had hopped up onto the bed beside her, still agitated, yet he lay his head on her lap to comfort her. An immediately sense of guilt washed over her as she realized she shouldn't have spoken out of anger to her. Arya was just a little kid! Ceilya had been a brat at times too when she was younger, she realized she still COULD be a brat at her current age; she'd just acted like one now. Groaning to herself, holding her stomach as she felt rather nauseous, she let her eyes stare off at nothing as she thought about how miserable she was feeling at the moment. Her Father would be leaving Winterfell to serve as Hand of the King, her brother was lying unconscious, her sister probably thought Ceilya hated her at this point….

She stood, smoothing out her dress hastily, tucking back a few curly errant strands of her dark brunette hair. She glanced at the poor beautiful, yet broken brush as it lay on the ground, and she sighed. Leaving it as it was for now, she made her way from her chambers to Bran's. Even if the Septa or the Maester tried to stop her, she was visiting with Bran, whether they liked it or not!

But it was not Septa Mordane or Maester Luwin at the door, blocking her entrance as she approached. No, it was two King's Guard at the door, eyeing her cooly as she stepped closer to the chamber door.

"Er…I'm going in to see my brother," she asserted, taking another step forward, but the two moved slightly to block her, their expressions unchanging. This ruffled Ceilya, until one of them spoke.

"No you're not; the Queen's in, visiting the boy," one supplied, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, more for show than for use, really. It actually struck Ceilya as a bit funny, that these two heavily armored and armed men meant to protect the Queen from a puffy-eyed girl of 16, whose only real weapon was a sewing needle! She didn't laugh though, only looked a bit dumbfounded.

"O-oh…." was all she said, clasping her hands awkwardly in front of her. She lingered for a moment, saying nothing. And just as she'd decided to leave and come back later, the chamber door opened slowly, and the Queen stepped out, nodding slightly to her guards. Ceilya froze, unsure of exactly how to greet the Queen; she was the QUEEN, but this was Ceilya's home. She was a polite girl but…she realized her decorum was severely lacking if she didn't even know how to properly address the Queen! Her cheeks flared red as the older woman turned her unsettlingly fierce gaze to Ceilya, and she dropped her own to the floor. "Your Grace," she mumbled, stepping aside to let Cersei pass.

But she didn't pass. She regarded the girl carefully, and then the wolf at her side, her look inquisitive but unwavering. She moved closer a step, everything about her movements seeming to be very cautious, very meticulous. Very intentional.

"You've come to see your brother," the Queen said, breaking the terse silence. Ceilya flinched, though she didn't know why, and quickly nodded. The Queen wore a kind yet tight little smile; it didn't look disingenuous, but it didn't look genuine either. "Then, don't let me keep you." She motioned for Ceilya to pass her instead, and after hesitating a moment, the Stark girl nodded quickly again, and skittered past the elegant woman, reaching for the handle. Rowan moved to follow her slowly, his gaze never leaving the Queen. Of course a wolf would never understand the intricacies of Royal politics, but he could sense the predatory nature of the woman who made his mistress cringe and shrink. "My condolences," Cersei said suddenly, causing Ceilya to pause, and warily turn back.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, bowing her head slightly. The Queen's eyes lingered for a few more moments, and then she turned, leading her guards away with her without another word. Swallowing the lump she harbored in her throat, Ceilya got on with it, entering the chamber quietly, and shutting the door behind her.

Bran was right where he had been when last she saw him. His face was turned up towards the ceiling, a peaceful look, as if he might only be dreaming, and could wake any moment. She dearly hoped that would be the case. His own Direwolf, Summer, was sprawled over the furs with him, gazing at the face of her boy as he lay unconscious. Her gaze didn't even break when Rowan set his paws on the edge of the bed to look at the two.

"Mother," Ceilya greeted, nodding to Catelyn Stark, who sat tensely weaving straw into the idol she was constructing on her lap. The older woman looked up then, her eyes very far away. She was looking at her eldest daughter, but hardly seeing her. Ceilya hesitated, before moving to clasp her mother's shoulder comfortingly. The two said no more, just stood as they were, enjoying the company of misery.

"…Ceilya." After a long while, Catelyn spoke, her hand patting her daughters slowly. "I haven't gotten the chance to speak with you yet, about the plans for you and your sisters-"

"It's alright, Mother," she said, sitting down in a chair opposite her. "We understand."

"But these things must be sorted out." She cleared her throat, setting her slightly shaking hands in her lap. She looked a mess, honestly, as if she hadn't slept in days. She probably hadn't. "Now. Sansa will be travelling to King's Landing with your father, as you know, for her…betrothal." Her voice caught again in her throat at that, but she swallowed her uneasiness about the idea of marrying her middle daughter off to the crown, and continued. "And Arya will be going as well. …If there's anyone who can keep her out of trouble, it's your father. Gods know I try and fail." Ceilya's gut clenched momentarily at that; she couldn't seem to deal with her right, either.

"…You're…you're 16, Ceilya, almost 17," Catelyn continued, struggling to find the right words. "I was betrothed at 16, nearly married. What I mean to say is….your marriage to Lord Harrion is nearing, and it would simply be unwise to send you to King's Landing, when we would just need to fetch you back again right as you arrive-"

"I understand." Ceilya nodded as she interrupted her Mother, her expression softening. "And frankly, I'm a bit relieved not to be going. …I can hardly remain in the Queen's presence for a moment, let alone a month of travelling. She's quite-"

"…Unnerving?" For the first time in days, Ceilya saw the corners of her mother's mouth turn upwards in a smile, and she nodded, suppressing her own grin.

"She just stares at you!" she said quietly, watching as Rowan snuffled his nose against Bran's hand as it lay beside him on the bed.

"I hear she's always been like that. Must be a Lannister trait."

"Her brother is quite pensive as well, he's always making a face as if he thinks he's very important." Ceilya giggled slightly, before pausing, and then amending her statement. "Her- Ser Jaime, I mean. Not her dwarf brother!" Catelyn smiled knowingly at this, her tired eyes crinkling at the edges.

"I'll be glad to be rid of the lot," she replied, glancing back to Bran's form on the bed. "…This visit has brought us nothing but sorrow." The temporarily lifted-spirit of the room died back down then, and Ceilya's sordid mood returned, as did her mother's.

Standing, Ceilya made her way to Bran's side, her hand reaching out to touch his cheek. His skin was warm, and her fluttering heart died down; she would have burst out crying if he'd been cold to her touch.

"Bran…" she mumbled his name, perhaps in the vain hope that upon hearing someone calling out to him, he would wake. Of course there was no such luck in the world, and he slumbered on.

Jon's footsteps were always so quiet. Robb and Theon had spent their years stomping around the castle as if they owned the place, and of course Arya, Bran and Rickon were only children, and children were never quiet. But Jon stepped as lightly as if on freshly fallen snow, nothing about his movements was brash and loud. In a way, he reminded Ceilya a bit of a deer, so quiet and sure-footed. What in the world was he doing here, with a pack of wolves? Stepping into the room, Ceilya didn't look up just yet, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see her mother turn to him. She was scowling.

"I've come to see Bran," Jon said meekly, and Ceilya glanced up briefly. He had directed his statement at her mother, as if to ask permission. She only scoffed.

"You've seen him," she said curtly, and yet Jon still advanced into the room, standing beside the bed, opposite Ceilya. He didn't look to her, just his brother, lying so still. His hand twitched at his side, but he didn't reach out to touch him.

"I'm leaving soon," he started, as if Bran was awake and listening. "I wish I could be here when you wake up. …I'm going North, with Uncle Benjen. I'm taking the Black." Ceilya flinched slightly at this; she knew, and yet she still didn't want to hear of it. It still felt like a fresh wound. Catelyn was staring up at Jon with a barely concealed anger, her tear-soaked eyes wavering, as if she couldn't even bare to focus on him.

"I know we always talked about visiting The Wall together," he continued, kneeling on one knee beside the bed, speaking softly. His breath rustled the hair across Bran's pale forehead. "But you'll be able to come visit me there once you've got better. I'll know my way around by then. I'll be a sworn brother of the Night's Watch." He paused, swallowing hard, as if swallowing back some emotion that threatened to overtake his words. "…We can go out walking beyond the wall, if you're not afraid."

With none of the quiet subtlety Jon possessed, Ned approached the open doorway then, watching as Jon stooped to kiss Bran on the head. Ceilya's hand quickly wiped the tears on her cheeks away, smiling at Jon as he straightened, but hatred was radiating from Catelyn, still yet unaware of her husband's presence.

"I want you to leave," she said quietly, though volume was not needed to and weight to her words. Her eyes were hard as she commanded the son that was not hers to go, and it was only when Ceilya turned a hurt expression to her mother, did Catelyn seem to snap out of her quietly enraged trance, and look around to realize that it was not just her and Jon in the room.

"Mother," she gasped quietly. Ceilya was not blind….of course she knew her mother was not fond of a bastard son. But, she thought, perhaps given the circumstances, she might be able to set her hatred aside, if not only to share in their collective misery over Bran? Shocked at her mother's selfishness, she watched as Jon obediently left, and quickly made her way after him, leaving her father and mother alone. "Jon, wait!"

"She wants me to go? I'm going," he said over his shoulder, not stopping for Ceilya, though she easily caught up.

"Jon!" Grabbing him by the arm, she finally got him to halt in the hallway, and as he opened his mouth to tell her to let him be, she pulled him down to her level, for a hug. And she held him tightly, too tightly, really, not intending to let him go. Her face buried into his shoulder, tears wetting his sleeve. "I'm sorry," she whispered, not knowing what else to say. What else was there to say?

But after a moment's pause, Jon hugged her back, letting her cry on him. She could cry for the both of them.

"It's not your fault," he told her, but she shook her head, squeezing him tighter.

"So?" she asked, voice breaking. "You're my brother, my REAL brother. It hurts my heart to see my mother hate you."

"You won't hurt anymore once I'm gone," he said, patting her hair gently. "I won't be around to irritate your mother anymore."

"And then my heart will hurt for a different reason." They both fell silent for a long time again, just holding each other. Jon would miss this. He would miss his sisters most of all.

"…You best be off," he finally said, pulling away, albeit reluctantly. "Arya and Sansa have already packed, and Father already made the preparations to leave. The Royal family has all but picked up to go." Fidgeting with her nose and wiping her face girlishly on her sleeve, Ceilya nodded.

"You're right," she said, "I should say good bye. Or at least try to."

"And what do you mean by that."

"Arya and I had a row earlier." Jon smiled at that; even during tragic times, Arya could still kick up dust. "I doubt she'll want me to see her off."

"I doubt you doubting yourself." Holding his arm out for Ceilya to take, in an almost comic fashion, he smiled earnestly. "But in any case, Arya and I said goodbye on good terms, shall I escort you to her? I doubt she'll be angry with you if I'm with you." Chuckling, Ceilya graciously accepted him arm, and let him lead the way. This might very well be the last time she and her beloved brother would be able to share such a pleasant moment.

She very much hoped she was wrong, though.

* * *

"He's only getting under our feet."

"He's my brother, Theon. That's what brothers do."

"If your mother won't come out and see to him, at least give him to Ceilya!" Rowan was sprawled at Ceilya's feet as she absent-mindedly flipped through her book in the great hall, but sat up straight as soon as Robb and Theon approached, Rickon and Shaggydog in close tow. "She'll be a mother soon enough anyway, give her some practice!"

"What are you two squabbling about now?" she asked with a sigh, still in a sour mood from watching half of her family ride off to only Gods knew where nearly a month ago. Her spirits hadn't lifted since. Setting her book down on the long table, she looked up, irritated with the smarmy smirk Theon wore. "Give me what?"

"Rickon," Theon replied, taking the boy by the shoulder and leading him to stand bashfully in front of his eldest sister. "He's irritating Robb."

"He is not," Robb protested. "He's just following me around. Mother won't come out and Rickon is worried." Looking to her youngest brother, she held her hand out to him, and let him sit beside her.

"I can read to you, if you like?" she asked him, to which he shyly nodded. She smiled at the boy, before looking back up to Robb. "I was speaking with Mother earlier. She was…not in a good mood when I left."

"I could guess as much. Jon said she was still there when he said his goodbye to Bran."

"She hasn't left the room at all, I think." Robb seemed to look a bit agitated, and pushed his dark curly hair out of his face.

"I'll have a talk with her. Just keep Rickon occupied until it's time for him to go to bed." Nodding concisely, Ceilya watched as the two older boys left the hall, before opening her book back up, and reading to her brother at a slower pace, her finger tracing the words as she did so, so that he could try to follow along. Shaggydog had settled down next to Rowan, the two brothers curled up at their masters feet to snooze, and for a long while, that's just what they did. And at first, Ceilya didn't notice the two beasts growing restless. But as soon as they both sprung to their paws, both brother and sister watched them lunge out from under the table, and burst through the doors of the hall, out into the courtyard.

"Rowan!" Ceilya called, frustrated at her direwolf's unruliness, but Rickon nearly giggled, hopping down from the table to chase after them. "Rickon, no, leave them- …Gods." It was obvious the boy was not going to listen to her commands, and so reluctantly abandoning their place in the book, she followed after them all, three wild beasts charging through the night. Annoyed, she pushed through the large oak double doors, about ready to call for all three of them to return, when she realized why the wolves were acting as strange as they were; a fire had broken out in the courtyard, and Shaggydog and Rowan were yelping and howling as they pranced around the flames.

"Oh, it's- Somebody, bring water!" she shouted, dashing forward to snatch Rickon by the arm, yanking him away from the flames, which were quickly overtaking a section of the stables. Picking him up, with some difficulty, she ducked back into the great hall, peering out of the doors just as Robb was returning to the courtyard.

"Water from the well!" he shouted at the frantic servants, joining in the efforts himself to put out the blaze. Ceilya held Rickon tightly, though he squirmed to get away, as she watched the fire be easily contained, and the extinguished all together. And when the final embers were finally stomped out, she let her brother go, as he ran back out, surprised Robb, who was surveying the damage. "Rickon?"

"It was Rowan and Shaggydog who smelled the smoke first, Rickon had run after them," Ceilya said, stepping out onto the charred grass beside her eldest brother. "I had to drag him away from the flames."

"I saw the fire from the window in Bran's room," he said, crossing his arms. "What started it, do you know?"

"A spilled oil lamp? Could be anything," Ceilya replied, wondering why Robb would ask her that; as if she would know? She wasn't the one who caused it!

"Hm." Turning away from her then, he bent to catch Rickon by the back of his shirt as he and Shaggydog ran by, the both of them covered in ash. "Oh, look at you!"

"Give him here," Ceilya said, suppressing a smile. "I'll take him to have a bath."

"No!" Rickon gasped as she said this, struggling to escape his sibling's grasps, but was dragged away nonetheless; Ceilya wasn't too strong, but she was strong enough to drag her brother, that was for sure!

* * *

"Lady Ceilya!"

"Lady Ceilya, please, where are you going?"

"My Lady, you mustn't-" brushing off the protests of the Septa and her chamber maidens, Ceilya swept out of the castle in a flurry of unbraided hair and skirts, whipped up by her quick movements and the wind. Her expression was grim, yet determined, and Rowan, ever growing large trotted at her side, his head held low over the ground.

The guards at the gate gave her quite a puzzled look, but they let her pass through without a word; with such a look on her face, it would have been useless to ask what she was thinking of doing out in the Godswood. It was pretty obvious.

"Mother. Maester Luwin. Ser Rodrick." She nodded curtly to those assembled, though leaving her greeting to her brother and Theon conspicuously absent. She had no greeting for them, they'd known she should have been invited, and yet they said nothing over breakfast! Catelyn looked at her daughter in surprise, and both Luwin and Rodrick exchanged glances.

"Lady Ceilya-" Luwin tried to start, but the girl fixed the old man with such a fearsome glare that he very nearly physically recoiled.

"It must've slipped everyone's minds to tell me that we were discussing important matters out here in the Godswood," she said, rather snappily. "Good think I heard from a servant that you had assembled everyone out here, Mother, or I might not have made it in time."

"…Ceilya, dearest," Catelyn started, and behind Robb, Theon snorted in amusement. Rounding on her father's ward, Ceilya shot him the nastiest look she could muster, before directing her vitriol back at her mother.

"-Because surely, if the WARD is allowed to hear your words about the welfare of MY family, then I am too." Robb nearly laughed himself at that, though at Theon's expense, and the latter shut up immediately, sobering up quickly. Catelyn exchanged a look with the Maester, before letting out a heavy sigh.

"Very well," she said. "But what I am about to tell you must remain between us." Letting the hair on the back of her neck lay back down flat, Ceilya began to calm herself, knowing for sure now that she would not be commanded to leave. Standing beside her brother, she folded her hands neatly behind her back. "…I don't think Bran fell from that tower. I think he was…thrown." Arya's words from before drifted back through her mind, and another pang of guilt washed over her, but she hid the feeling well, and listened on.

"The boy was always sure-footed before," Maester Luwin commented.

"Someone tried to kill him twice. Why?" Catelyn's gaze swept across those assembled. "Why murder an innocent child? Unless…he saw something he wasn't meant to see."

"Saw what, M'lady?" Theon asked, genuine concern flashing through his eyes. Theon was a pain to Ceilya, but she had to admit, he had a genuine love for her family, that much was obvious.

"I don't know," Catelyn admitted, looking away briefly. But I would stake my life the Lannisters were involved."

"That's a serious accusation…" Ceilya said, though as soon as her mother had said it, it felt as if the very same thought in her heart had just been confirmed.

"We already have reason to suspect their loyalty to the crown," she pointed out.

"And did you notice the weapon the killer used?" Ser Rodrick asked, revealing the knife that had been used by the assassin the night the fire had broken out, to make an attempt on both Ceilya's mother's and Bran's lives. "It's too fine a dagger for such a man. The blade is Valyrian steel, the handle dragon bone." He looked around at them gravely. "Someone gave it to him."

"They come in our home," Robb said quietly, turning to look at Ceilya. "Try to murder our brother. If it's war they want-"

"Robb, don't speak that way!" Ceilya was shocked at such a hasty conclusion, jumped to by the ever-reasonable Robb. He wasn't usually the type to say such drastic things, even in grave situations such as these. But Theon was quick to jump at the chance to stoke his ego.

"If it comes to that, you know I'll stand behind you," he quipped, clasping her brother on the arm.

"War?" He was interrupted by the Maester, who chuckled humorlessly at the suggestion. "Is there going to be a battle in the Godswood? Hm?" He glared between the two boys slowly. "Too easily do words of war become acts of war. We don't know the truth yet." He looked to Lady Stark. "Lord Stark must be told of this."

"I don't trust a raven to carry these words," she said, her face falling.

"I'll ride to King's Landing," Robb offered, but that suggestion, too, was shot down quickly.

"No." Catelyn's tone was laced with finality. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. …I will go myself."

"Mother, you can't-" Robb began to protest.

"I must." Ceilya's stomach twisted at those words, and it felt as though her heart was beating in her throat.

"Then I'm going too," she finally spoke up, stepping forward. Robb rolled his eyes heavily behind her, and Theon let out another condescending snort.

"You?" he asked, causing her to look back at him defensively. "Why would she take you?"

"Ceilya, you're staying here," Catelyn said, brushing the suggestion aside, and yet Ceilya wasn't done.

"No, I'm going. You still need someone to tend to your hands, and you can't very well do it yourself." She motioned to her mother's deeply injured hands, which could barely curl to grab anything. Catelyn had to admit, there was a point there, but Ceilya continued. "And if you're on the King's Road, you'll need protection, and Rowan won't listen to you, only me."

"…My Lady, if I may?" Both women turned to look at Ser Rodrick as he interjected. "I can have Howl draw up a team of guardsmen, to protect you, Lady Stark. You won't need the wolf."

"No…no, too large a party attracts unwanted attention," she said quietly, mulling over the possibilities. "…I don't want the Lannisters to know I'm coming."

"Summer ripped that assassin's throat out, and Rowan is nearly twice her size already," Ceilya said, resting her hand atop her wolf's head. "And he's much less conspicuous then a team of men on horses."

"Ceilya, that's enough-" Robb set his hand on his sister's shoulder to try and reason with her, and just when she shrugged him away angrily, Catelyn held a hand up, conceding.

"No, she's right." She heaved a sigh. "She's right. It would be more convenient to travel with lighter protection, and a direwolf is as light as they come. Figuratively speaking, of course." Lady Stark fixed her daughter with a very stern stare then. "Ceilya, if you accompany me, you're not to cause any trouble. You're to do as I say, when I say it, and you're to keep your mouth shut and your head down in King's Landing."

"Yes, mother," she said, nearly breathless with excitement; "of course!"

"Let me accompany you, as well, at least," Ser Rodrick said, looking between the two women helplessly. "I don't trust your lives to the direwolf…" Catelyn agreed, to Ceilya's chagrin, but none of this was sitting well with Robb.

"And what about Bran?" he asked, dumbfounded that his mother would agree to go herself, and take Ceilya with her! "Who'll watch over Bran if you're both gone?"

"The Seven," Catelyn said quietly, her gaze unfocused as she was once again reminded of her son's precarious condition. "I have prayed for his life to the Seven for months now….only they can watch over him, now."


	3. Chapter Three - Unsavory Establishment

Catelyn's eyes followed the direwolf warily as she watched her eldest daughter dote over it. Nearly up to Ceilya's hip, he was, and with jaws big enough to encase a man's head. And yet it rolled over and showed the girl it's belly as if it were still a chubby pup. Each time it snapped it's teeth close to Ceilya's hand, trying to take the little bits of meat she would toss him Catelyn flinched, glancing down at her own injured hands. She knew deep down that she would never fully understand the bond her children had with these creatures; they were Starks, after all, and she was not. The Starks had a long, storied ancestry with these beasts, companionship ran through their veins along with their stubborn blood. But she did wish Ceilya would be a bit more wary with such a dangerous animal. Rowan was as tame as they come, and yet…those teeth. It was enough to keep Catelyn awake at night.

"Mother, would you stop glaring at Rowan as if he ate your newborn?" Ceilya laughed, noticing the look her mother was giving her wolf. Snapping out of her own thoughts, Catelyn startled, growing a mite bit flustered by Rodrick and her daughter giving her that amused look on their faces.

"I was not," she asserted, going back to what she'd been doing previously, ensuring their things were properly packed and stowed with their horses. The three of them, four if you counted the beast, were only just waking with the first rays of the sun, readying themselves to continue on after spending a rather short night at an inn. "I just wonder if you could feed him without putting your fingers in such danger?"

"Danger? Oh please, Mother, look!" Holding up a piece of bacon, she held her hand out to Rowan, palm out in a 'stop' sort of motion. "Rowan, easy. Down." And on her command, he reluctantly set his snout down on his paws, laying down as she said, though his eyes never left the meat. "Show us your belly." And again, on cue, he rolled to his back, paws up by his nose to reveal his belly to her submissively. "Good boy! Catch!" Tossing the bacon, Rowan was on his feel in a flash, lunging for the bacon as it flew through the air, catching it before it hit the ground. Ceilya turned to her Mother, who looked none too impressed. "I'm not in any danger, Mother, he's very obedient."

"Yes, well, a horse is obedient," Lady Stark countered, reaching up to her steed's saddle, and pulling herself up by herself, despite Rodrick's offer to help. "Until it's spooked."

"Nothing spooks Rowan, he's a direwolf. He's top of the foodchain, ahead of even us." Ceilya too attempted to hoist herself into her saddle on her own, but couldn't find the strength in her arms to pull herself all the way up. Again, Rodrick offered to assist her, but before he could, Rowan was by her feet, head bowed low to the ground. He'd helped her onto her horse before in such a fashion, letting her use his shoulders as a stepping stool, and with his boost, she was able to sit comfortably (or at least, as comfortable as sitting side-saddle could be) on her horse. Rodrick paused upon seeing his assistance was not needed by either lady, and just chuckled.

"Well, I have a complaint," he said, checking the saddle bags once more, before mounting his steed, and leading the trio off. "This wolf seems to be pushing me out of a job!"

* * *

Ceilya kept her eyes low as she followed behind her Mother and Ser Rodrick. Both Stark women had donned headscarves shortly before riding close to the Capitol city, to keep from drawing too much attention to their faces. For Ceilya, there really was no need; she'd never before been to the Capitol, and unless the Queen and King themselves were riding around the slums of King's Landing at that very moment, no one was around to recognize her. But her Mother was far more recognizable, and had been to the Capitol before. So nevertheless, they kept their gazes low and their voices down.

"Fewer eyes back her, My lady," Rodrick remarked, speaking quietly to Catelyn, "but still too many." The three of them were entering the city from a side gate, very poorly manned and guarded, with only the peasantry present. Ceilya glanced behind them, at the treeline far off, outside the city gates; she'd instructed Rowan to stay hidden in the trees; bringing a wolf into the city would have been a dead giveaway. She knew he'd be fine…but she still worried.

"It's been nine years since I've stepped foot in the Capitol," her mother replied, "and no one knew who I was the last time, either." Even though Ceilya had been instructed to not gawke….she couldn't help it. Even in this decrepit gate on the far end of the city, there were so many people! And so...underdressed. In her thick woolen dress, she was feeling much too warm in the mid-southern climate, but even so! These peasants were hardly wearing anything, the 'dresses' the women wore could hardly be called even that!

"My Lady…" Her gaze away from several girls who looked to be about Ceilya's age once Ser Rodrick's tone changed, and her eyes widened, startled, as two men on horseback rode before them, halting their progress forward.

"Welcome to King's Landing, Lady Stark," they greeted them, though they were really only addressing her mother. Pulling her horse up beside her mother, Ceilya fought the sudden urge to reach out and grab her mother's hand; she wasn't a child. And this was no time to be frightened. "Would you mind following us?"

"I would," Catelyn said, her surprise and misgiving tone barely concealed in her voice, "we've done nothing wrong."

"We've been instructed to escort you into the city," the man on the right continued, his face obscured by a partial veil of chainmail.

"Instructed!?" Catelyn spat, her temper flaring slightly at this seeming misfortune. "I don't know who's providing your instructions, but-"

"Allow me, Lady Stark." The man's voice sounded almost…bored, and it struck Ceilya as a very disrespectful way to address a Stark, even so far away from home! But he handed her mother a scroll, and while neither Ceilya nor Rodrick would read it's crest or contents, whatever was on it seemed to do a good job of pacifying her mother, and without another word, she bade her horse forward, following the men's lead.

"What's this about?" Ceilya asked Ser Rodrick quietly, falling in line behind Catelyn, next to him.

"I don't know, Lady Ceilya, but your mother is a shrewd woman. If the contents of that scroll had not pleased her, we would have known about it."

"If we were going to be discovered so quickly, I should have liked to have Rowan with us," she lamented, feeling rather vulnerable, riding with these men through the streets. If they weren't drawing attention before, they sure were now.

"Something tells me," Rodrick said, narrowing his eyes in contemplation, "That these aren't the King's men, or Lannister men." This gave Ceilya pause, and she leaned forward in her saddle, and then sideways, trying to get a better look at their armor. True, it wasn't the white capes of the Kingsguard or the golden armor of the Lannisters.

"Then who are they?" She asked, still having misgivings. "And how did they know we were here?"

"Only the Gods know the answer to the latter, My Lady. And as to the former…." He motioned to Catelyn then, and a single glance at her somewhat irritated expression, for some reason, put a few of Ceilya's nerves to rest. If these were their enemies leading them through the throngs of people, Catelyn would not look so annoyed, she'd look terrified. "I have a feeling your mother has a good idea."

A good idea indeed. The moment the 'establishment' these men were leading them to came into view, Catelyn's expression grew fiercer, her cheeks redder, her grip on her reins tighter. Ceilya had a vaguely bad feeling about this as well, though she didn't quite know why. She did know, though, that as they rode up to a rather extravagant building in a rather run down little alley (so extravagant as to look very misplaced there) that the women around them seemed to be wearing less and less clothing, even by southern standards. It became hard to avert her eyes, as there was simply nowhere to avert her eyes to.

Catelyn dismounted in a flurry, but as Ceilya was about to slide off of her saddle, aided by Ser Rodrick, her mother halted her.

"Not you," she instructed, her voice venomous. "You stay here; Ser Rodrick, you make sure she's safe out here. She's not coming in.

"My Lady, I can't let you go into a….an establishment like this on your own," he protested, but Catelyn was having none of it.

"She's not coming in!" she hissed again, her hands balling into fists, even though with her injuries it must have caused her great pain.

"Mother, is…is this a brothel?" Ceilya finally asked, feeling more uncomfortable here by the moment. She'd never been so close to one! Sure, Winterfell had it's places of ill repute, but…Ceilya had never dared get this close to one! She was a good girl, after all, and the girls here were…not. "Why have we been brought to a brothel!?" A slight lilt of panic rose in her tone, and even though Rodrick patted her hand soothingly, it didn't go away. "Don't leave us alone out here! I don't want to go in, but if you're going in, I'm coming with you!"

"I told you, Ceilya, if you came with me, you were to do exactly as I say," Catelyn said, throwing her hands up as Ceilya hopped down off her saddle. "And I'm telling you now, stay outside!"

"I don't want to!" she said, almost pleading now. The men who had led them here were standing a little ways off, by what appeared to be the front door, but as their 'guests' were taking a long time to decide whether or not to come in, one coughed awkwardly, to get their attention.

"If you will…?" he said, motioning them to follow him. Ceilya looked again to her mother, begging with her eyes. Catelyn let out a frustrated sigh, eyes finding Ser Rodrick, looking for backup, though he had none to give.

"I'm inclined to agree, My Lady," he ruefully muttered, to which Catelyn scoffed. "I don't much like the idea of it, either, but I dislike the idea of letting you go in alone more. We should keep together." Ceilya nodded beside him, praying silently to any God that would listen to not be left outside, and it seemed as if they were listening, as Catelyn's expression finally relented, and she shook her head.

"…Fine. But stay close to me, and…and don't look. At anything." She held her bandaged hand out for Ceilya to take, which she gratefully grasped, gently. Walking close by her side, the three of them finally obliged the men in armor, entering the dimly lit foyer of the facility. They were led upstairs, and into a small room that, despite being heavily curtained, let in several rays of sunshine, which cast themselves over a figure on the far end of the room, who was languidly sitting by the window and sorting through a few papers in his lap. Beside him sat two women, dressed in wonderfully draped jewels, though not much else.

"Cat!" he purred upon their entry, appraising them with something akin to a kind greeting, though not quite a kind greeting. Standing, he looked to his two…companions, and began to shoo them. "Go on, go upstairs." They both stood slowly, painted eyes skimming over the newcomers, before they took their leave, and the man stepped closer to the trio. "And, who is this? …Your daughter?"

"You little worm!" Catelyn suddenly burst out, lobbing the scroll she'd been given at the man, who dodged it, the smile never faltering from his features. "You take ME, for some back-alley Sally that you can drag into a-" and just as she was about to spit out the word 'whorehouse', two women, this time completely topless, slipped past the beaded curtain that separated this room from the next. They seemed surprised to see the man had guests, but the man seemed more surprised to see them, and quickly snapped at them, pointing away. They retreated, somewhat resentfully, and Catelyn's rage only grew. "-with my DAUGHTER here, I can't believe this!"

"I meant no disrespect," he said, his voice…disarmingly gentle. "To you, of all people."

"How dare you bring me here! Bring US here!" Ceilya stepped a bit closer to her mother then, wide eyes, trying not to look around too much; she was fairly certain the painting on the far wall was of a very naked women doing very…inappropriate things. "Have you lost your damn mind!?"

"No one will come looking for you here," he replied, raising his eyebrows. "Isn't that what you wanted? …I'm truly sorry about the locale." His features rearranged themselves seamlessly to look at Catelyn with something so, so close to genuine regret. And Catelyn seemed to be buying it.

"How did you know we were coming to King's Landing?"

"A dear friend told me." They were motioned to look back then, to a man just revealing himself from behind another curtain of glass beads. He was a large man, short but wide, with a head so polished, had the sun shone on it, it might've blinded them all. Ceilya regarded him curiously; his corpulent features were…almost comical. She'd never seen a man so fat; in the north, men rarely had the chance to become this large.

"Lady Stark," The man greeted, dipping his head low in a much more appropriate greeting.

"Lord Varys," Catelyn returned, seemed a bit baffled to see him here…of all places. He approached the three of them, reaching to take Catelyn's hand.

"To see you again after so many years is a blessing," he said, "oh! …Your poor hands…" But before he could trap her bandaged hand in his grasp, she withdrew, causing him to turn a pained expression up at her.

"How did you know I was coming?" she asked again, growing tired of asking the same thing again and again. This man, Varys, kept his hurt look…or maybe that was just his face?

"Knowledge is my trade, my lady." His gaze strayed to Ceilya then, and as if to make a point, he dipped his head to her as well. "Lady Ceilya." This unnerved Ceilya greatly; she'd never been near this man in her life, how could he have known who she was? Her name? She clung to her Mother's arm tighter, almost like a frightened toddler, and her cheeks sprung red at that thought. Mercifully, his attention to Ceilya did not linger, and he returned his gaze to Catelyn. "Did you bring the dagger with you, by any chance?" he asked, again subtly letting them all know just how much HE knew, without them having to tell him. Ser Rodrick shot Lady Stark a questioning glance, and when no one spoke, he finished, reluctantly. "…My 'little birds' are everywhere. Even in the North."

"Little birds…?" Ceilya whispered, more to herself than to anyone else, but none the less she was still hushed by her mother. Ser Rodrick slowly began to unwrap the dagger they had brought with them.

"They whisper to me, the strangest stories." He took the sheathed dagger when offered to him, and in a flourish, drew it to inspect. His eyes glinted with recognition then, his face showing awe, though it very well could have been manufactured; these two men struck Ceilya as very much the type to wear expressions just for the show of it. She doubted very much that two men in a place like this were truly shocked by anything anymore. "Valyrian steel."

"Do you know whose dagger this is?" Catelyn asked, imploring him to spout off more of his uncanny knowledge, but he paused, readying himself to disappoint her.

"I must admit I do not." Ceilya watched her mother's face fall at that, but behind them, the first man, the one Catelyn had thrown the scroll at, began to chuckle.

"Well, well," he mused, "this is a historic day." And when he'd fully received everyone present's attention, he quirked an eyebrow up. "Something you don't know, that I do." He put his hand out, receiving the dagger from Varys and looking at it, almost lovingly. "There's only one dagger in all of the seven kingdoms like this, you know," he said, very nearly tracing a finger along the sharp edge, and when everyone gathered had their breath held, waiting for him to reveal who the assassin was, he chuckled once more. "…It's mine."

"Yours?" Catelyn blurted out, though not quite as vitriolic as Ceilya had expected…or hoped. At the word 'mine,' all the hairs on the back of her neck had stood on end.

"At least, it was. Until the tournament on Prince Joffrey's last name day." He was still laughing, that damn laughing, and it was…not right. Not right to Ceilya. She dared not say anything, not here, not with these people, but…but why was he laughing? She didn't like it, it sounded disingenuous. "I bet on Ser Jaime, in the jousting, as any sane man would. And when the Knight of the Flowers unseated him…I lost this dagger." He punctuated the end of the sentence by sliding the dagger audibly back into it's sheath, admiring the perfect fit of the leather.

"To whom?"

"Tyrion Lannister." It seemed that the whole building fell silent at those words, even the…unsavory noises from behind walls seemed to cease. "The Imp."

Ceilya felt herself suck in air involuntarily at that; The Imp? The Imp was the one who wanted her brother dead!? It seemed like such a terribly laughable idea! …And yet, the way that man spoke, the way he'd spoken to Jon that night, and the mere fact that he was a Lannister…Ceilya had to admit, it wasn't THAT farfetched. But then again, what kind of a man was stupid enough to give an assassin his own, one-of-a-kind dagger? Even Ceilya knew that that was not a smart move.

"I knew it," Catelyn said under her breath, looking away. "I knew this was the work of the Lannisters."

"What are we going to do?" Ceilya asked, and to this, she was greeted by amused chuckles from the assembled men. Instantly, her face flushed mauve, and she looked around in both embarrassment and defiance at them; why were they laughing at that!? She was being serious! Catelyn didn't find it all that funny though, and ignoring the chuckles around them, her eyes were staring at something far off, not really seeing much.

"I have to tell Ned," Catelyn muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Though the man who's brought them here stepped forward, clearing his throat.

"Leave that to me, Catelyn."

* * *

"I don't like it."

"Petyr is right, who would come looking for us here?"

"I reserve the right to still not like it, My Lady." Catelyn and Ser Rodrick sat on one of the silk-decorated sofas in the man's office, whom Ceilya had come to know was called 'Little Finger' among those familiar with him, and Petyr Baelish among those that weren't. A tea set had been brought for them, and sat untouched on the low table beside the sofa; no one's stomach was sitting right enough for tea. While her mother and Rodrick sat talking in hushed tones, Ceilya was roaming about the room, still making a concerted effort not to look at the painting on the wall, but letting her eyes fall curiously on everything else. There was quite a bit to look at in a place like this. Artifacts from Dorne, fine china from Essos, every kind of jewel set in lovely jewelry sat in half-open boxes on Petyr's desk, and even his family crest seal was inlaid with gold. The whole room was draped in fine red linens and silks. This place was pretty much the exact opposite of anywhere back North.

"He's gone to fetch Ned, and once I get the chance to speak with him we won't need to linger any longer." The older woman turned a wary eye to her daughter, wandering around, picking things up every now and then to inspect them. "…But you're right. The sooner we're out, the better."

"Don't much like the Capitol," Rodrick said, scratching at his beard and shaking his head. "A Knight loses his skillset when there's not much to do besides beat peasants at the roadside and visit wh-…..brothels."

"I've never been a fan myself, if I'm being honest."

"Mother-"

"Ceilya, honestly, come away from the window!" Ceilya was peering out of the curtains slightly, just enough to see down to the road. She made a face at being scolded like that, furrowing her eyebrows. "I've told you already-"

"It's Father," she interrupted, finally getting her word in edgewise. "Petyr's returned with him!" Catelyn didn't waste another moment being flustered, she was on her feet immediately, and casting aside the curtains, and poking her head out. Ceilya leaned out of the window as well, gasping as soon as they both saw Eddard holding poor Little Finger to the wall by his neck.

"Ned!" Calling to his attention, he looked up, surprised as ever to see his wife and daughter looking down on him, letting Petyr go almost accidentally, though he quickly made his way inside.

"Gods Alive," he swore, pushing his way into the office where they all stood, laughing in surprise to find them in a brothel, of all places! "What in the seven hells are you doing here?"

"It was what Petyr said was safest for us," Catelyn said ruefully, as Ceilya left her spot at the window to hug her father.

"Did he now? That little worm…"

"That's what Mother called him," Ceilya said in amusement as she pulled away from the hug, so her parents could embrace.

"He's right, though," Catelyn continued, as she tried to fend off the barrage of kisses Ned attempted to leave all over her face. "Ned! Honestly!"

"I haven't seen you in a month," he countered, finally relenting, holding her at arm's length. He glanced between the two of them. "And what are you doing here, Ceilya? Trick your mother into letting you come along?" Ceilya suppressed a small smile at that; it wasn't far from the truth, really. But before any more could be said, Petyr returned, hands folded behind his back.

"I hate to break up such a heartfelt reunion," he said, giving Ceilya the impression that he didn't hate it at all. "But, time is of the essence with this particular matter. Ned's absence from the Red Keep won't be ignored for long."

"He's right," Ned said, nodding in agreement. Catelyn seemed to be steeling herself to admit to her husband what she knew, and she took a deep breath.

"The Lannisters WERE behind Bran's 'accident'," she said. "Tyrion Lannister. The dagger the assassin used? Tyrion won it off of Petyr in a bet some time ago."

"What? The Imp?" Ned began to laugh, as if this were all some elaborate joke Catelyn had conspired to play against him. "My ten year old son is twice his size!"

"It's true." Taking the dagger from his belt, Little Finger stepped forward, handing the weapon to Ned. "It was a dagger of my own design and commission, and I lost it in an ill-fated bet to the youngest Lannister sibling last year." He paused, as if reminiscing on the event. "Such a terrible gambler, he is, but it seemed to have paid off for him that time. And as you know, it wasn't Tyrion himself that carried out the assassination."

"Well, if this IS true," he said, looking to his wife, "then we must tell King Robert."

"The mere suggestion that the Queen's brother tried to kill your boy would be considered Treason," Little Finger reminded them.

"But we have proof?" Catelyn said, "we have the blade!"

"Which Lord Tyrion will say was stolen from him." Catelyn threw her hands up at this, as Ned set a large hand on her shoulder. "The only man who could say otherwise has no throat, thanks to your boy's wolf."

"Then what are we to do?" Ned asked. "And how should I know if you're telling the truth and it wasn't you who sent the assassin?"

"Petyr has promised to help us find the truth," Catelyn said, turning her gaze from her husband to her friend. "He's like a little brother to me, Ned, he would never betray my trust!" She offered Petyr a small smile. "I won't forget this, Petyr. You're a true friend." Ned stood by almost helplessly, shaking his head.

"Don't tell anyone," Petyr said, his own sly smile gracing his features. "I have a reputation to maintain."

* * *

"Rowan!" Ceilya all but leapt from her horse's saddle as the familiar lump of red-brown fur came into view, snoozing at the roots of a half-dead tree. His ears immediately perked up at her voice, and he was bounding over to her in an instant, tongue lolling from his mouth like an overexcited pup. He nearly bowled her over, though she was able to maintain her balance, and kept jumping up to lick her face. "Rowan! Sto- stop! Ha, down!"

Catelyn watched the spectacle with dull eyes; she might've been worried deep down, but at the moment, only just having said goodbye to Ned for a second time, she couldn't bring herself to feel much of anything besides sorrow. But, it was nice to see her daughter happy. It was easy to forget that Ceilya, despite her age, was very much still a child; the rare moments when she wasn't obligated to keep a cool head were nice to see every now and then.

Sighing, Catelyn hoped Ceilya wouldn't have to grow up too fast. Her wedding was looming just over the horizon, and the older woman couldn't help but feel, watching her daughter giggle as he wolf tried unsuccessfully again to lick her face, that she was just as unprepared as Sansa was for marriage.

"Gods help my children," she muttered under her breath, urging her horse forward. "They will all need it."


End file.
